


Catch Fire

by iridescentglow



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-27
Updated: 2005-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan and Logan have an angsty, late-night conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Fire

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers** : #2.05, 'Blast From The Past'

Logan fell asleep halfway through Revenge of the Sith. Before the movie there had been countless video games, hours of surfing through the hotel's premium cable package on TV; a hundred forced attempts to keep the conversation light, a thousand evasions of _Veronica—Lilly—yourdadmydad—anythingatall._ Duncan had to agree: it was exhausting.

Duncan reached over to grab the remote, muting the TV. The lights in the suite were on some kind of timer; they lowered a fraction every hour. By now—1am? 2am?—it was almost dark. Duncan watched absently as Anakin turned to the dark side; all big set pieces and flashing neon lights. Allowing his focus to wander, Duncan found himself watching Logan; the way the colours from the TV flickered across his face, distorting it briefly and almost imperceptibly into the red of anger, the blue of sadness—green—yellow—a dozen colours and emotions revealed and then hidden just as quickly.

Logan didn't sleep sprawled out; it was one of those things that, over the years, Duncan had noticed without even realizing. Logan seemed to land like someone injured or killed, utterly sapped of life; head lolling, body compacted, limbs bent awkwardly. Sometimes he flinched in his sleep, protecting himself from some nightmarish force. Duncan hadn't ever asked about the dreams, just like he'd never asked about the white ridges scarred deep into Logan's back or the fresh patterns of bruises laced over his arms. Pain glimpsed and then hidden. Logan wore long-sleeved shirts in summer, and Duncan didn't ask.

Tonight, Logan had sand in his hair. It was just another anomaly that a big part of Duncan's brain told him he didn't want to know about. Duncan had heard the stories about Logan over the summer. Not just the front page news, but the sharp whispers of rumour that undercut it. The fired servants who recounted psychotic burst of rage from Echolls Junior ( _"must be genetic, ya know?"_ ); the slutty girls who alternately claimed Logan liked to be tied up and spanked, or that he couldn't get it up and would cry in their arms ( _"guess mommy never gave him the love he craved . . ."_ ). Most vivid in Duncan's recollection was the Echolls' yard guy, briefly a celebrity on the Neptune party circuit, who told lurid and provocative tales of Logan's drug-fuelled debauchery that climaxed in Logan's lips wrapped around his cock.

Duncan reached out to touch Logan's hair; just the merest touch, so that grains of sand fell onto his fingers like glitter at a school dance. Logan shifted slightly, and Duncan's hand fell away. There was a long moment, a beat that stretched out uneasily. Then Logan's head turned, angling up toward Duncan. He still looked sleepy and sated, his new characteristic hardness barely creeping back into his face.

Duncan's hand was still too close to explain away, resting inches from Logan's shoulder. ". . . are you sleeping at the beach now?" he asked vaguely.

Logan frowned, rolling his eyes into a parody of dismissiveness. "There a law against that?" he joked.

"Actually, yeah, I think there is."

Logan cracked a smile, defiance building in his eyes. "Well, sometimes, Duncan," he said with a hint of condescension, "the fun doesn't stop this side of the law."

"Shut up," Duncan hissed, "just _shut up_."

Logan opened his mouth to respond, but Duncan cut him off—"I'm not _Dick_ , okay?" Duncan muttered fiercely, ignoring Logan's jolt of laughter. "I'm not gonna believe your lies. I actually—I _know_ you. I _care_ about—"

"Yeah, you're a real good friend." Logan's voice was suddenly cold, his pretence that this wasn't an argument fading. "So how come I feel like you hate me." He said it flatly; it wasn't even a question.

Duncan stared at Logan. Because it was true, of course. He did hate him. Not just because Mr Echolls . . . not just because he took Lilly away. Not just because Veronica had chosen him—had shared something with him that Duncan couldn't quite grasp; a special kind of darkness and _need_.

Logan was the smirking jackass in the corner. He had been on that first day of school, when he and Duncan had been magically linked by virtue of being the richest and most powerful kids in the room. Twelve years old and . . . _powerful_. Logan had made the nervous teacher's life a misery, without even trying, without even noticing. Duncan had fallen into the role of cohort; basked in the inverted glow of being 'the good one', the angel that would rise when Logan inevitably fell. The only trouble was . . .

"Maybe I just hate myself," Duncan muttered. "For what you made me." He paused, gulping breath. "For what I made _you_."

Logan would always be the smirking jackass in the corner of his mind. Just as Duncan suspected he would always be the weak little angel whispering in Logan's ear.

Duncan finished hollowly, "Veronica was right to want out."

Logan exhaled, long and hard. He hauled himself up off the floor, clawing his way onto the couch. Duncan felt his body slacken as Logan climbed on top of him. He savoured the weight, the sudden difficulty he found he had with breathing. Their limbs tangled together, anticipation and desire stirring as they shifted their bodies together. Duncan felt the knots unravelling in his mind as Logan's knee pushed between his legs, his hands rubbing up across his chest.

"Yeah," Logan said, struggling to keep his face neutral, "I slept on the beach last night. Because sometimes I just don't want to go _home_ to—to—Casa- _fucking_ -Killer." He leaned down, dropping a kiss just below Duncan's ear. "You had enough of my secrets for tonight?" He tried to sneer, but it faltered—a tremble of his lips against Duncan's neck.

Duncan swallowed painfully. ". . . no. Tell me the rest of them. Tell me all of them." 

Logan pulled back. He almost smiled. His voice was noticeably calmer as he said, "You don't want to know."

"Yeah," Duncan said truthfully, "I really don't." He reached up, threading his fingers through Logan's hair so that more sand fell. "But I want you to tell me anyway."

**Author's Note:**

> _"maybe I'll catch fire_  
>  something warm to hold me  
> something pure to burn away  
> the darkness that hides inside my mind"   
> **-Alkaline Trio, 'Maybe I'll Catch Fire'**


End file.
